Lod. My lord, upon my soul, you shall no further;
You have most ridiculously engaged yourself
Too far already. For my part, I have paid
All my debts; so, if I should chance to fall,
My creditors fall not with me; and I vow
To quit all in this bold assembly
To the meanest follower. My lord, leave the city;
Or I'll forswear the murder. [Exit.
Fran. de Med. Farewell, Lodovico:
If thou dost perish in this glorious act,
I'll rear unto thy memory that fame
Shall in the ashes keep alive thy name. [Exit.
Hor. There's some black deed on foot. I'll presently
Down to the citadel, and raise some force.
These strong court-factions, that do brook no checks,
In the career oft break the riders' necks. [Exit.
SCENE VI.—An Apartment in Vittoria's House.
Enter Vittoria Corombona with a book in her hand, and Zanche; Flamineo following them.
Flam. What, are you at your prayers? give o'er.
Vit. Cor. How, ruffian!
Flam. I come to you 'bout worldly business:
Sit down, sit down:—nay, stay, blouze,[92] you may hear it:—
The doors are fast enough.
Vit. Cor. Ha, are you drunk?
Flam. Yes, yes, with wormwood-water: you shall taste
Some of it presently.
Vit: Cor. What intends the Fury?
Flam. You are my lord's executrix; and I claim
Reward for my long service.
Vit. Cor. For your service!
Flam. Come, therefore, here is pen and ink; set down
What you will give me.
Vit Cor. There. [Writes.
Flam. Ha! have you done already?
'Tis a most short conveyance.
Vit. Cor. I will read it: [Reads.
"I give that portion to thee, and no other,
Which Cain groaned under, having slain his brother."
Flam. A most courtly patent to beg by!
Vit. Cor. You are a villain.
Flam. Is't come to this? They say, affrights cure agues:
Thou hast a devil in thee; I will try
If I can scare him from thee. Nay, sit still:
My lord hath left me yet two case[93] of jewels
Shall make me scorn your bounty; you shall see them. [Exit.
Vit. Cor. Sure, he's distracted.
Zanche. O, he's desperate:
For your own safety give him gentle language.
Re-enter Flamineo with two case of pistols.
Flam. Look, these are better far at a dead lift
Than all your jewel-house.
Vit. Cor. And yet, methinks,
These stones have no fair lustre, they are ill set.
Flam. I'll turn the right side towards you: you shall see
How they will sparkle.
Vit. Cor. Turn this horror from me!
What do you want? what would you have me do?
Is not all mine yours? have I any children?
Flam. Pray thee, good woman, do not trouble me
With this vain worldly business; say your prayers:
I made a vow to my deceasèd lord,
Neither yourself nor I should outlive him
The numbering of four hours.
Vit. Cor. Did he enjoin it?
Flam. He did; and 'twas a deadly jealousy,
Lest any should enjoy thee after him,
That urged him vow me to it. For my death,
I did propound it voluntarily, knowing,
If he could not be safe in his own court,
Being a great duke, what hope, then, for us?
Vit. Cor. This is your melancholy and despair.
Flam. Away!
Fool thou art to think that politicians
Do use to kill the effects of injuries
And let the cause live. Shall we groan in irons,
Or be a shameful and a weighty burden
To a public scaffold? This is my resolve;
I would not live at any man's entreaty,
Nor die at any's bidding.
Vit. Cor. Will you hear me?
Flam. My life hath done service to other men;
My death shall serve mine own turn. Make you ready.
Vit. Cor. Do you mean to die indeed?
Flam. With as much pleasure
As e'er my father gat me.
Vit. Cor. Are the doors locked?
Zanche. Yes, madam.
Vit. Cor. Are you grown an atheist? will you turn your body,
Which is the goodly palace of the soul,
To the soul's slaughter-house? O, the cursèd devil,
Which doth present us with all other sins
Thrice-candied o'er; despair with gall and stibium;
Yet we carouse it off;—Cry out for help!—
[Aside to Zanche.
Makes us forsake that which was made for man,
The world, to sink to that was made for devils,
Eternal darkness!
Zanche. Help, help!
Flam. I'll stop your throat
With winter-plums.
Vit. Cor. I prithee, yet remember,
Millions are now in graves, which at last day
Like mandrakes, shall rise shrieking.[94]
Flam. Leave your prating,
For these are but grammatical laments,
Feminine arguments: and they move me,
As some in pulpits move their auditory,
More with their exclamation than sense
Of reason or sound doctrine.
Zanche [Aside to Vit.]. Gentle madam,
Seem to consent, only persuade him teach
The way to death; let him die first.
Vit. Cor. 'Tis good. I apprehend it,
To kill one's self is meat that we must take
Like pills, not chew't, but quickly swallow it;
The smart o' the wound, or weakness of the hand,
May else bring treble torments.
Flam. I have held it
A wretched and most miserable life
Which is not able to die.
Vit. Cor. O, but frailty!
Yet I am now resolved: farewell, affliction!
Behold, Brachiano, I that while you lived
Did make a flaming altar of my heart
To sacrifice unto you, now am ready
To sacrifice heart and all.—Farewell, Zanche!
Zanche. How, madam! do you think that I'll outlive you;
Especially when my best self, Flamineo,
Goes the same voyage?
Flam. O, most lovèd Moor!
Zanche. Only by all my love let me entreat you,—
Since it is most necessary one of us
Do violence on ourselves,—let you or I
Be her sad taster, teach her how to die.
Flam. Thou dost instruct me nobly: take these pistols,
Because my hand is stained with blood already:
Two of these you shall level at my breast,
The other 'gainst your own, and so we'll die
Most equally contented: but first swear
Not to outlive me.
Vit. Cor. and Zanche. Most religiously.
Flam. Then here's an end of me; farewell, daylight!
And, O contemptible physic, that dost take
So long a study, only to preserve
So short a life, I take my leave of thee!—
These are two cupping-glasses that shall draw
[Showing the pistols.
All my infected blood out. Are you ready?
Vit. Cor. and Zanche. Ready.
Flam. Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons! Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic! Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse!
Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air,
Or all the elements by scruples, I know not,
Nor greatly care.—Shoot, shoot:
Of all deaths the violent death is best;
For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast,
The pain, once apprehended, is quite past.
[They shoot: he falls; and they run to him, and tread upon him.
Vit. Cor. What, are you dropt?
Flam. I am mixed with earth already: as you are noble,
Perform your vows, and bravely follow me.
Vit. Cor. Whither? to hell?
Zanche. To most assured damnation?
Vit. Cor. O thou most cursèd devil!
Zanche. Thou art caught—
Vit. Cor. In thine own engine. I tread the fire out
That would have been my ruin.
Flam. Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! O, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice!
Vit. Cor. Think whither thou art going.
Zanche. And remember
What villanies thou hast acted.
Vit. Cor. This thy death
Shall make me like a blazing ominous star:
Look up and tremble.
Flam. O, I am caught with a springe!
Vit. Cor. You see the fox comes many times short home;
'Tis here proved true.
Flam. Killed with a couple of braches![95]
Vit. Cor. No fitter offering for the infernal Furies
Than one in whom they reigned while he was living.
Flam. O, the way's dark and horrid! I cannot see:
Shall I have no company?
Vit. Cor. O, yes, thy sins
Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell,
To light thee thither.
Flam. O, I smell soot,
Most stinking soot! the chimney is a-fire:
My liver's parboiled, like Scotch holly-bread;
There's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds.—
Wilt thou outlive me?
Zanche. Yes, and drive a stake.
Through thy body; for we'll give it out
Thou didst this violence upon thyself.
Flam. O cunning devils! now I have tried your love,
And doubled all your reaches.—I am not wounded;
[Rises.
The pistols held no bullets: 'twas a plot
To prove your kindness to me; and I live
To punish your ingratitude. I knew,
One time or other, you would find a way
To give me a strong potion.—O men
That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted
With howling wives, ne'er trust them! they'll re-marry
Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider
Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.—
How cunning you were to discharge! do you practise at the Artillery-yard?—Trust a woman! never, never! Brachiano be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale. That ever man should marry! For one Hypermnestra[96] that saved her lord and husband, forty-nine of her sisters cut their husbands' throats all in one night: there was a shoal of virtuous horse-leeches!—Here are two other instruments.
Vit. Cor. Help, help!